On “Push” by The Cure Adam Sear It’s 1985, I’m 15 years old, and my mate John has a cassette of the new album by The Cure. This cassette, like most of John’s music collection, actually belongs to his older brother, Andy. Ah, Andy; tall, skinny, clad in black, unruly hair and a cheeky smile. A cool-as-you-like sixth-former, he might have been my first man-crush. He played guitar, knew all the cute girls, went to all the right parties… He was smart too; I’ve always found people with The Cure interesting minds attractive. Also, as an only child, my friends and their elder siblings “Push” were the people I looked-up to. They were my true brothers and sisters, and music was our shared language. The Head on the Door So. 1985. Up to now, I’ve been a sugary pop-kid. Howard Jones, The Thompson Twins, 08/1985 Frankie… The darkest explorations of my musical taste have stretched only as far as Fiction / Elektra Depeche Mode, who, l suppose could get pretty dark and weird for a band who regularly appeared on Top of the Pops. I knew about The Cure, of course. I’d probably danced on one leg to “The Lovecats” and “Let’s Go To Bed” at some point at a school disco, but that’s about all. To me, Goth was a big, cobweb-covered, leather-bound, antique-padlocked, firmly-closed book. (Not that I see The Cure as a typical Goth outfit. Like their spiritual sister band, Siouxsie and the Banshees, they’re too good, too diverse, too damn interesting to be pigeon-holed like that.) So, we’re in the attic of John’s centuries-old house (pretty Goth, right?) His dad is the town vicar, and they live in a huge, rambling pile of a place. Big enough to find a space to play loud music far, far away from disapproving parents. John slips the tape into his shiny silver ghetto-blaster, he presses play, and away we go. The classic “Inbetween Days” opens the record, and what a fine way to start. From memory it had already come out as a single—forgive me if I’m wrong, but in honour of 1985 I’m not Googling. It had that unforgettable video, with a camera swinging from a rope, and another lashed to the fretboard of Robert Smith’s acoustic guitar… Man, it looked like they were having a ball. I really wanted nothing more than to be in that room, in that band, playing that beautiful, crazy dream-pop. The weird, Japanese-inflected “Kyoto Song” follows. I blush now to inform you that back then I had no idea who or what a ‘Kyoto’ was. I vaguely guessed it might be an instrument of some kind. I’m happy to say that some years later, in 1994, I both visited Kyoto and played a koto, so my ignorance on that point has been corrected. I could happily go track by track, but I’m here to tell you about my anthem: “Push”. There’s nothing quite like the head (on the door)-rush of “Push”. That thrilling intro, all two minutes and twenty-three seconds of it, itself the length of a ‘60s single, the way the guitars chime, and then Boris Williams’ big old drums rattle in, all ‘80s gated-reverb, smashing around in the mix. Then the bass begins to pulse, classic Simon Gallup - simple, effective, not too busy. Robert Smith has a habit of letting the intro run long, giving you an insight into the structure to come. Then, by the time he starts to sing, you are 100% familiar, riffing along, air-drumming. Dancing on one leg… 11 The surreal lyric is pure Cure, of course, and the dream / nightmare quality fits with the rest of the record perfectly, but it was the simple refrain of: Go go go Push him away No no no Don't let him stay that got to me; gets to me even now. I expect there was a girl, it was usually a girl, a girl I wanted to be with who was with an unsuitable (in my biased eyes) boy… Story of my teenage years. There was someone around this time, who I thought might have been The One, but I messed it up. I know I did, and I’m still sorry. Push him away, don’t let him stay… My mantra, my anthem. As I write this, I can still feel that longing and loss in the pit of my stomach. And the music, it’s like a claustrophobic, insomniac Born To Run if Bruce Springsteen had been born in Crawley, instead of New Jersey. It made me want to run—not literally, I’ve never been given to jogging—but run, go, travel, explore, expand my tiny, rural backwater horizons… The Head On The Door, and “Push” in particular, were brain- stretching and life-changing for me. The way I approached music, writing, the way I dressed, the desire to mine the different across all aspects of culture; it began here. The Head on the Door contains two more legitimate anthems: “A Night Like This” and “Sinking”. Let’s face it, it’s a goddam, full-on anthemic album through and through. Anyone who has witnessed the mighty Cure live will attest to this quality, pulsing in grand swathes throughout their catalogue. The sweeping keys, the delayed guitars, the other-worldly oddness of Smith’s voice… Yes, that voice. There is no one else like him. What might come across as merely mewling and querulous, is somehow rendered plaintive; the sound of a soul lamenting, sometimes in torment, sometimes tormenting, but always strangely warm and uplifting. It’s 2017, I’m 47 years old, and my mate John has just got in touch via Facebook. We haven’t spoken since the last century. We meet in the pub of our youth; our old sixth-form haunt. The bar where his brother Andy told me to forget about my dream of being an actor… ‘Seventy-five percent unemployment, mate…’ I’ve never been sure if I should’ve thanked him for that advice or not. I followed it, and of course I might never have made it anyway… Who knows? (I know, deep down, I’d never have made it. Thanks, Andy.) It’s strange, being in the pub with John. This pub. So different now. Free of smoke for a start, also free of familiar faces. There are no sixth-formers pretending to be legal drinkers since ID cards put paid to all that. It seems a shame for them. Some of my best nights involved an illicit pint or three, talking nonsense with my brothers and sisters about music, ’til last orders sent us reeling home. Our phones are on the table. Another big change since the ‘80s. “What are you listening to these days?” I ask him. “Music? Not much. Bit of Radio 3 here and there…” he says. “Do you still play?” I ask. 12 Like his big brother, John played guitar. “It’s gathering dust, mate,” he replies, ruefully. I swipe the screen of my iPhone, and call up Apple Music. “Well,” I say, “the last five albums I listened to are: The Head on the Door, Brett Anderson Live, The Walker Brothers Greatest Hits, The Stone Roses and ChangesBowie.” “Still a bit white-boy indie, aren’t you?” John laughs. “A bit,” I agree. Not entirely these days, but a bit. “The Head on the Door, though,” says John. “That takes me back… Rehearsing, playing gigs in my back garden…” “Crappy Technics keyboards and borrowed mics…” I say. “I should thank you, John. That record opened my eyes to… everything…” He laughs. “What? Really?” “Yes, really. I was never the same again…” It’s true. When I left school I carried on playing in bands, and trying to emulate my heroes. I found ‘70s Bowie, Lou Reed and The Velvet Underground, and the late ‘60s Stones. Then The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, Blue Aeroplanes, Divine Comedy, Scott Walker, Pulp… All of them well within the frame of pop, but all of them pushing out… Push, push, push… Changing the formula… Don’t let him stay… Opening me up to new possibilities. All of them with anthems of their own; beautiful, distilled epiphanies for the common people, common people like me. I’ve never got over the thrill of “Push” and THotD, but since then, like an addict I’ve been constantly seeking my next fix. I still return to it, but I’m still searching, drawn by the lure of pop’s powerful spell. 13 .